Why?
by spitzthecat
Summary: Josh is a single father. WARNING: Involves character death. PostAdministration
1. Chapter 1

Twelve years after leaving the Bartlet White House, I am a 52-year-old, single father of two boys, ages 11 and 6.

I am also the newly elected President of the United States.

Today is Monday, January 21, 2019. Today, I will stand on a freezing cold dais and take the oath of office. To my eldest, Jonah, will go the honor of holding the Bible.

Today I find myself in a position I never, in my wildest dreams, imagined possible. When the Party came to me two years ago and asked if I was willing to run, I was the junior Senator from Connecticut, trying to balance the all-consuming demands of my job with the needs of a nine-year-old and a four-year-old; a delicate orchestration of personal and professional priorities that was difficult at best and nightmarish at its worst.

Standing on the pedestal of achievement and looking back, the past twenty years stretches out like an endless highway of sorrow and tragedy. So many burdens have shadowed my path to this place. I buried my sister, my father, my mother, my mentor, and my good friend: each more difficult than the thing before.

My father, my mother, Leo – they were all sudden, but not completely unexpected losses. My father had cancer; my mother did also. Leo had three heart attacks before the final one took him. Hard things, to be certain, but I learned it could always get worse.

I thought nothing could compare to the difficulty of telling CJ that her son's father had died of a massive heart attack while we were playing racquetball. I also thought nothing could compare to the responsibility of fulfilling my promise to be a father to his four-year-old son.

Then I had to tell my best friend that if he didn't get help for his substance abuse problem, he was no longer welcome in my family's life. I was forced to stand by and watch as the man I consider my brother chose the drugs over us.

I thought all of those things were difficult and painful until I had to bury my wife.

Donnatella was my soul mate.

Her doctor found the cancer a month after we learned she was pregnant again. Many long, tearful conversations followed until we both came to the realization the cancer had progressed too far, too fast and there was no feasible way to beat it. Donna's fiercest struggle became giving life to our unborn child.

It was a battle she would win, at the cost of her own life. Donna died on January 20, 2013, mere hours after giving birth to our son, Jacob by caesarean. She lived long enough to see him and hold him. My most treasured possession is the last photo taken of her, holding newborn Jacob with Jonah and I at her side.

We buried her on the 23rd of January in a small cemetery not far from the Hill, so the boys and I could visit frequently. On the 30th, after observing seven days of mourning, I returned to the Senate a widower with an infant and a kindergartner. My staff pulled together and transformed my office into Romper Room, with Miss Margaret firmly at the helm. People adjusted to the fact that I wasn't going to put my kids in daycare, much less able to with the hours I worked.

Jacob and Jonah were dragged from endless meeting to trivial event. By the time he was eight, Jonah was helping Margaret answer the phones after school. I became the champion of child-care advocates and single parents, the poster boy for balancing career and family.

When I wasn't being vilified by the Republican Party for exploiting my children for personal political gain.

CJ and I, already close after Toby's death, banded together and our kids became inseparable. Isaac and Jonah, only two months apart in age, became especially close. I took the three of them to temple on Saturdays before we'd gather CJ and have family day in a park somewhere or go to the movies. My boys began looking to CJ as a mother and Isaac turned to me to be his father. CJ and I consoled each other as friends, both of us knowing we'd likely never replace the ones we'd lost.

After the first anniversary of Donna's passing, CJ moved out of her apartment and into my four-bedroom brownstone. Isaac and Jonah had to share a room, but it was the best arrangement we could think of that didn't involve us hiring people to take care of our kids. Something we were both loath to do.

CJ's job as the public relations chief of Planned Parenthood of Washington, D.C. was flexible, allowing her to shuffle the older boys from school to sports practice to home or my office, depending on the day's schedule.

Jacob was a fixture on my hip. Fortunately, he was a very calm baby in the face of Senate votes and committee hearings. Cantankerous debates were at least held in civil tones in his tender-eared presence.

Such debates have been numerous over the past six years as this great country and its elected representatives have drifted aimlessly and desperately in search of a leader with purpose, morality and, perhaps a hint of hubris.

Looking at the field of viable candidates, the Democratic National Committee decided a fifty-ish Jewish widower with two kids was their best shot at retaking the presidency after twelve years. I reluctantly agreed to run against the sitting President, after CJ and Josiah Bartlet convinced me I could do more good in the White House than in the Senate.

My campaign strategy revolved around proving to the electorate what I had known for four years: the current President was woefully out of touch with the American public. While Congress was attempting to forestall an economic disaster and rebuild infrastructure devastated by corporate and government corruption, the Executive Branch was finding new and increasingly unconstitutional ways to limit our fundamental freedoms in the name of national security.

It was a vicious, mean-spirited campaign from the get-go. All of the thinly veiled insults and slurs came to a head in the midst of our last debate when, trailing miserably in every poll, the son-of-a-bitch went after my kids. I think the networks had to bleep out most of my expletive-ridden response.

When I hit the campaign trail again the next day, it became apparent voters agreed with the sentiments I so coarsely expressed and many of them heartily agreed with the venomous diatribe I had delivered.

CJ thought my defense of the children, though rude and obnoxious, probably sealed the election for me. I told CJ she could either take the rude part back or kiss her future job as my Chief of Staff goodbye.

Yesterday, we made our annual trip to the cemetery. Someone got the bright idea that chronicling my entire inauguration would make great television, so a camera crew from some network news magazine trailed us on this intensely private journey. The images they captured were run on every evening newscast: Jonah taking his brother's hand and the two of them following a step behind me to their mother's grave.

I knelt at Donna's headstone, unmindful of the camera crew hovering about and the snow clinging to my pants. My single white rose set at the base of the stone, I lifted my gloved hand to trace the engraved letters of her name. _Donnatella Lyman. Wife, Mother, Friend and Soul Mate. Long Shall Your Spirit Linger With Those Who Treasured You in Life._

In the bitter cold, I couldn't feel the tears running down my cheeks. Jonah and Jacob placed their roses with mine. This year, as has happened every year before, Jonah stood stoically by my side whispering a prayer, while Jacob wrapped his arms around my neck and cried into my overcoat. Taking three stones from my pocket, I handed one to each child and we solemnly placed them atop the grave marker. Holding Jonah's hand and carrying Jacob, I trudged through the snow to the waiting car.


	2. Chapter 2

On this particularly frigid, snowy morning, I am causing distress for those charged with running the inaugural festivities. For starters, I am anything but festive. This time of year is hard for me and I typically slip into a funk for the couple of weeks surrounding January 20th.

Certain things must be done, however, and this is one of them. Eleanor, the rather prissy woman in charge, decided the boys and I should walk the mile long parade route. I'm guessing CJ wasn't at this meeting or she would have explained the stupidity of forcing a six-year-old to walk a mile in a straight line in the freezing cold.

I let it go as my concession to the lack of interest I've taken in the entire proceeding and the bare bones to which we have stripped this normally elaborate celebration. We're doing the Processional, the speech, the luncheon with congressional leaders and the review of troops. Following those events, I will have about six hours to get everyone settled into the Residence and tuck the boys into bed before I escort CJ to the last Inaugural Ball.

"You're going to have to carry Jacob part of the way. He won't be able to keep up." CJ fusses with my overcoat, brushing the snow from my shoulders.

"I know."

"Isaac and I will be waiting on the platform with the rest of the staff. Gregory, Tina and their kids are walking with you." She's still fussing. We do this when we're nervous, this 'act like an old married couple' thing. It confuses people who don't know us, especially since I still wear my wedding band. More than once I have had to explain CJ is not my wife, she's my Chief of Staff. My Vice-President, Gregory Miller, walks toward us just as I take hold of her forearms to still her hands.

"Claudia Jean, breathe. You're freaking me out," My smile doesn't reach past my lips, but I wrap her in a hug. "You're too good to me."

"Donna would be so proud of you," she tells me, causing my eyes to tear up.

"Mr. President?" A Secret Service agent stands a respectful distance away with the Vice-President and his family.

"We ready?" I greet the Millers with as much enthusiasm as I can muster.

"Can I ask you a question?" Gregory looks at me intently as we start towards the beginning of the parade route.

Until Tom, my Communications Director, recommended him as a VP candidate, Gregory was the low profile, conservative, Democratic governor of California. Before getting into politics, he worked as the Chief Operating Officer of a media conglomerate. His wife is some sort of big-time movie actress. They have two kids: Patrick, who is 19 and a freshman at the University of Southern California; and Jessica, a 16-year-old high school sophomore. They've been trying to find a private school here in D.C. for her without much success. Jonah keeps telling me that he thinks she's hot. I'm not sure if he's referring to the girl or her mother.

"CJ and I are just simply good friends." My flat tone would have stopped any other person from following up.

"That's not what it looks like."

I do not like what he is implying. It has been implied far too frequently of late by people who should know better.

"Honestly, Mr. Miller, I don't care what it looks like to you. Her husband was a good friend. I promised him a long time ago I would take care of her and Isaac. CJ made a vow to my wife on her deathbed that she would return the favor. If you have a problem with the way we honor those promises, you had better get over it now."

Jacob picks that moment to run over to us.

"Papa?" he asks, holding his arms up.

I can resist this precious gift from Donna absolutely nothing. I pick him up and he buries his nose in my wool coat. "Are you cold?"

He nods his head against my chest, content to be carried for the time being. We hit the main parade route and I put my politician face on, smiling and shaking hands as best I can while holding Jacob.

In spite of CJ's predictions, I end up carrying Jacob the entire way. My normally boisterous son is suddenly camera-shy. Jonah, however, is truly in his element. He might look like me, but his out-going personality reminds me so much of Donna's.

The snowfall becomes heavier when we reach the end of the route. I thank God I told my speechwriters to shoot for one of the shortest inaugural speech on record. I take the oath and give a fifteen-minute address outlining my intentions to pull this nation out of the economic toilet. We're done by noon. The boys are fighting over who gets which bedroom by 3 o'clock.

I have been insistent upon keeping our non-traditional family together, thereby forcing Isaac and Jonah to decide if they want to continue sharing a bedroom. Leaving the dynamic duo to their unique decision making process, I duck my head into Jacob's room.

"What's the matter?" The lights are off and he has tucked himself and his baby blanket into the furthest corner of the room. I sit on the floor and pull him into my lap, wrapping the blanket around his narrow shoulders.

"I want to go home." The sniffles begin.

"Sport, this is going to be home for a while. We talked about this." I have a feeling this emotional breakdown isn't about where home is; it's about somebody being overtired.

"Papa?" he asks after a bit more sniffling.

"Sport?"

"Do I have to go to a different school?" The biggest thrill of his short life was starting first grade this past fall. I had made tentative plans to home-school them during the campaign, but Donna's mother came through for me, offering to stay in D.C. from September through the election so they could have a sense of normalcy.

"No, Jacob. You're going back to school next week. Mr. Franklin is going to go with you from now on though. Okay?" Tony Franklin is the lead agent for Jacob's protection detail. He is a thirty-year-old ex-Marine with a penchant for roller hockey. Hopefully, he can keep up with a six-year-old. When they met this morning, things seemed okay.

"Okay," he mumbles, falling silent for the longest time.

"Papa, tell me about Mama."

Jacob does this to me on occasion. Out of nowhere, he'll ask about Donna. It generally happens when he's feeling insecure about something. The night after his first day of school was no different. All the children in his class were talking about what jobs their parents did and Jacob was the only one without at least two parents. Most had four.

"_Papa, why don't I have a Mama?"_

"_Your Mama had to go be with God, Jacob."_

"_Why, Papa? Why didn't she stay with us?"_

"Your Mama was a wonderful woman, Jacob. I love her very much."

"Still?"

"I'll love your mother forever, son." I close my eyes and let the images of Donna float through my mind: memories of her and Jonah, her and I, the day Jacob was born. "She was smart and funny. She loved to learn new things; nothing made her happier than being with us."

"I miss her."

Despite his sadness, I have to smile at him. How he misses someone he never knew I don't pretend to understand. "I miss your Mama, too, son. She's watching over us though. And she'll always be in your heart. If we never forget her, if we cherish her memory, she'll always be with us."

"Jonah says Mama's an angel now."

"Jonah's pretty smart." I hug my little boy tighter.

It isn't long before Jacob falls asleep cuddled against my chest. Carefully getting up, mentally chastising myself for letting my exercise routine go to hell in the last month, I put him to bed with his blanket and Leo the stuffed lion.

Closing the door behind me, I enter the maelstrom that is the newly christened 'I & J's Clubhouse.' At least that's what the sign taped to the door says.

"Hey, no nudie pictures on the walls in the White House," I call over the music blaring from Isaac's stereo. It was the first thing they hooked up.

"Papa, we want bunk beds!" Jonah emerges from under the one bed currently in the room.

"And a basketball hoop, Uncle Josh!" Isaac is attempting to duct tape the hoop for his nerf game to the closet door.

"Bunk beds or lofts, guys?" I planned ahead for this occurrence and two loft beds are being delivered this afternoon.

They exchange glances, Isaac nodding his head in deference to Jonah.

"Lofts," my son decides as I anticipated he would.

"I'll see what we can do. If they get here, you two leave construction of them to the adults. Okay?"

CJ is leaning against the wall opposite the Clubhouse when I shut the door to keep the noise level down to a dull roar. She looks amused, but tired.

"How we doing, Claudia?"

"I'm unpacked, the stewards unpacked your stuff, Margaret is organizing the Oval Office and the rest of the staff is fighting over desk space in the West Wing."

"Want to go watch?" I favor her with my first true smile of the day, remembering the day she and I got stuck in the offices with adjoining doors because we were both late.

"No, you need to get ready for your interview," she reminds me.

Shit, I'd forgotten about that. Part of the camera crew following us around is a one-on-one personal interview with the reporter. CJ and Tom both agree it's past time for me to start talking about my personal life to the American public.

I refused to discuss the particulars Donna's death, or any of my other personal tragedies, throughout the campaign. I preferred focusing on issues such as the economy, education and the government's increasing intrusion into everyday life. I reached this decision for a couple of reasons. First of all, elections aren't about the past, they are about the future. Dwelling on the past does nothing for us; I insisted every time the issues came up, we should learn from it and move forward. Secondly, a new batch of reporters has emerged in the past ten years, many of whom I do not know and do not trust.

A momentary reprieve comes with the arrival of Derrick Williamson, the man in charge of the Secret Service Presidential Detail.

"Mr. President, if you have time, we can go over your sons' protection arrangements."

"I'm going to go clarify some things with the stewards," CJ excuses herself. We don't want the White House staff cleaning the boys' bedrooms or anything else they need to learn to do for themselves. Or be presented with as punishment for misbehavior.

The ever-present camera crew is not allowed into my meeting with Derrick and the Secret Service. They remain behind, content to see what havoc Jonah and Isaac can wreck upon the Residence.

After we go over the boys' security and review my normal daily activities, it's time for me to do the interview. Because of the hell being raised in the West Wing by the transition and the nature of the discussion, they've set up in the private study.

The reporter is a woman I vaguely remember from the campaign trail, but whose name I cannot recall. I have become as bad with names as Josiah Bartlet.

I make myself as comfortable as I can in an antique captain's chair and allow them to clip the wireless microphone to my slightly rumpled dress shirt. My jacket was discarded hours ago. I consider it a miracle to still be in possession of my tie, even though it has been pulled down and the top two buttons of my shirt undone. Along with the rolled up sleeves, I imagine I look rather a mess. Or as Donna would have said, barely fit for public consumption.

The reporter does her introduction and begins with a softball question.

"How has today been?"

"Hectic." I allow small smile to grace my features, hoping it explains my general disrepair. "The White House staff has been wonderful in helping us get situated and comfortable."

"No problems?"

I shrug. "Nothing of national importance."

"How are your children dealing with this?"

"They'll have the Residence destroyed by next week." I pause for the news people to have their laugh. I assume they got a good taste of what I'm referring to. "Seriously, they're okay for the most part. It's one big adventure to Jonah. Jacob doesn't quite understand what's going on. He's been very unsettled for the past week. Once we can establish a routine, he'll be all right."

I tempted fate by opening my mouth. Before another question can be asked, I hear a crash from down the hall. Jonah's yelling for me is barely audible over the sound of Jacob screaming in pain. Rolling my eyes, I get up and go sort out the mayhem. The camera and the reporter follow in my wake.

"What happened?" I demand upon entering the older boys' room. Wooden beams lay scattered like discarded Lincoln Logs and the youngest of the three is cowering on the floor, bleeding. His initial screams have quieted to whimpers. Kneeling down, I survey the damage done to Jacob's head by whatever fell over.

"We were putting the lofts together." Isaac wisely comes clean.

"Did I not thirty minutes ago specifically tell you two to leave those alone?" My tone of voice leaves no room for argument.

"Yes, sir." Jonah and Isaac both hang their heads.

"Yet you did it anyway. Clean it up." I order, scooping Jacob up and heading towards the nearest bathroom.

Sitting him on the counter, I take a wet cloth to the blood. It isn't as bad as it looks. There's an inch long gash above his right eye and he's stopped crying completely. In my professional, fatherly, opinion it requires iodine, a bandage, a kiss and probably some ice cream.

CJ ducks under the camera to join us in the bathroom. She makes a face when I apply iodine to the cut.

"Ouch, Papa! That hurts!" Jacob informs me indignantly, jerking his head back. The skin around the cut is starting to swell and discolor already. He's going to have a mammoth headache.

"CJ, grab the…" I trail off when she hands me a gauze pad. Once it's secured to the little boy's head, CJ hands me two children's Tylenol. I give them to Jacob with a glass of water.

"Better?" I raise my eyebrows at him. When he nods, I kiss the top of his curl-covered head.

"Papa, can I have some ice cream?" Huge brown eyes look up at me woefully from his seat on the counter. At times like this, I understand why Donna was helpless when I wanted something.

"After dinner, Sport."

"Can I go make fun of Jonah?" Denied one request, he tries another.

"Sure." I set him down and give him a swat on the butt as he dashes out the door, almost knocking over the camera guy.

The reporter stares after him, astonishment written all over her face. "How do you do that?"

"What?" I learned early on kids are virtually indestructible. You bandage them up and send them on their way until they bang into something else.

"He was bawling his head off two minutes ago and now he's fine?"

I laugh at her wonderment. I can't help it. "He's six. He has two speeds: on and off. If I flipped out over every cut, scrape, bruise or occasional head wound, we'd be in the emergency room every day."

We pass the Clubhouse on our way back to the study. Two Secret Service agents, power tools in hand, are lurking outside the room. Jacob is just inside the doorway, giggling at the two troublemakers trying to re-organize the pieces of the lofts.

"You're going to wait until they get it cleaned up, right?"

"Yes, sir." Neither of them reacts to my joking tone.

"Don't let them touch the power tools. I doubt we're equipped for accidental amputations." The thought of Jonah and power tools makes me cringe: he isn't klutzy so much as he is overly curious and disproportionately fearless.

"Yes, sir." This time I get a couple of smiles out of them.

We settle back into the interview and it is obvious the softball questions are over.

"When did your wife pass away?"

"January 20th, 2013. The day Jacob was born," I answer, unconsciously fiddling with my wedding ring.

"She had cancer?"

I nod. "Donna was diagnosed in July of 2012 with stage four breast cancer. By that time, it had already spread to her lymph nodes. She was four months pregnant with Jacob. We decided we didn't want to risk aggressive radiation and chemotherapy treatments. There wasn't a very good probability of recovery. And the treatments would likely have caused a spontaneous abortion."

I pause to take a deep breath and try to explain why we reached the decision we did. "We had several miscarriages between Jonah and Jacob. Donna didn't want to do anything that might terminate the pregnancy. She felt if that's what we did and she survived, she wouldn't have been able to look at herself in the mirror. To sacrifice our child for her own life wasn't something she could fathom."

"You must have loved her very much." It isn't a question so much as a response to the pain I'm sure she can see in my eyes.

Biting my lower lip in a struggle to control my emotions, I reply with a nod, blinking back tears. Despite my best intentions, I can feel a path of wetness slowly trickle down from the corner of my eye. I've never really talked about this with anyone except Abigail Bartlet. Abbey was my rock during those five months. When I needed to rant and rail and curse God for doing this to my family, Abbey was only a phone call away. She always knew what to say to help me get a grip on my emotions so I could go home and be there for Donna and Jonah. CJ, I'm sure, provided the same outlet for Donna.

She gives me a moment to compose myself and then lightens the mood a bit. "So what's with you and CJ Cregg?"

I roll my eyes. "CJ and I have been friends for 20 years. We have a mutually beneficial living arrangement."

"She moved into the White House."

"She has her own room," I counter, my smile returning. "We are not involved in any sordid or sexual capacity. The arrangement we have works for us and our boys."

We move on to talk a bit about the shooting. I had disclosed that I suffer from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder when I ran for the Senate back in 2006. I use the present tense because it is not something that is curable. Twenty years later certain things still cause me to have flashbacks. I still have the odd nightmare. The difference is I am mentally capable of dealing with it now. Then, I didn't understand how to make the flashbacks stop or what triggered them. Now, I do.

No one has ever attempted to make an issue of it, much to my surprise. Which is fine, since I haven't talked about it with any of the boys.

After we finish, I check my crappy watch to discover it is time for dinner. CJ and I reached an agreement with the cooking staff to allow us to cook as a family on occasion. This is one of those nights. It's a celebration of sorts. Or it was supposed to be.

In the subdued manner of condemned prisoners at their last meal, Jonah and Isaac are setting the table. CJ started without me and when I enter the kitchen, I find a flour-covered Jacob happily squishing homemade pizza dough onto the pan.

After we eat, the troublemakers are sentenced to a week of dish duty and three days without video games for their crimes. By the time they finish with the dishes, CJ and I need to get ready for the ball and the boys need to get ready for bed.

Getting out of the shower, I find them all in my room. Donna trained Jonah from birth that I am incapable of dressing myself for formal events, so he considers it a mandate that my preparations are properly supervised.

I study them in the mirror as I assemble my tuxedo. Jonah and Jacob, with their dark hair and brown eyes, are such contrasts to Isaac's red-haired, blue-eyed, freckled-splattered features. My boys are short and skinny for their ages. Jacob is about the size of an average four-year-old, the only reason I can still lug him around. Jonah can sometimes be heard at night praying for a growth spurt. Isaac is tall, like his mother, and stocky, like his father. He is thoughtful and meticulously where Jonah is brash and impulsive. Jacob is the wild card. You never know what the day will bring with him, much like life with Donna was.

"Papa?" Jonah asks, handing me my suspenders.

"What?" I reply warily.

He glances at his cohorts. "We took a vote."

This can't be good. They only invoke the principles of democracy when they want something.

"We want to go tonight." I'm looking down at three hopeful faces. Three freshly-scrubbed, hopeful faces, I notice. Jacob's gauze pad has been replaced with flesh colored butterfly bandages.

"Go. Get dressed." I give in and wave them towards their rooms.

Margaret uses the word adorable to describe the trio all decked out in tuxedoes.

"For that, dear Margaret, you are on Jonah patrol tonight." I inform my long-time gatekeeper.

"Can I just have a recitation of the batting averages of the '69 Mets?" She groans. The look I get I long ago dubbed the 'nothing deserves this' look.

Jonah is God's revenge on me for all of the truly horrid things I did to my parents as a child. Left unsupervised, I can count on him to pull just about anything. My fear tonight is tomorrow's headlines will be that the President's 11-year-old son was able to get drunk at the Inaugural Ball. Or that he tried to pick up a congressman's wife. I have been unsuccessful in my attempts to convince him that he is not Casanova.

While dancing the ball's first dance with CJ, it dawns on me that I did not imagine the worst possibility. My eldest is putting his best moves on the Indian ambassador. Not that she isn't a stunningly beautiful woman, she is. The real problem is there are three members of the White House Press Corps within earshot and I know for a fact his best moves come verbatim from the old Austin Powers movies and involve repeated use of the word 'shag.'

I glance around for Margaret. Isaac has her distracted some fifty feet away from the scene of the crime. CJ and I come off the dance floor and are immediately intercepted by Jacob and the senior Senator from New York. Separately, in case you were wondering. The Senator from New York is a pompous ass with whom I have never gotten along.

"Mr. President," he begins, ignoring the short presence to his right.

"Papa!" Jacob tugs on my trousers.

"Excuse me for just a moment, Senator." I kneel down to eye level with the more important party.

"What is it, Sport?" His tie is a bit crooked, but I resist the urge to straighten it. It gives him a slightly rakish look.

"My head hurts," he whines.

I'll bet it does. The lump above his eye is a fetching shade of purple. I stand and fish two more children's Tylenol out of my pocket. Grabbing a glass of water from a passing waiter, I squat back down.

"Here."

He opens his mouth so I can pop the pills in and then takes a big gulp of water. I give him about thirty more minutes before I have to take him upstairs to bed. In deference to the more intimate White House I wish to establish, this final Ball is being held in the House. It sprawls across several rooms, but it allows me to be in the vicinity of my children.

Senator Ficanelli is still standing there, impatiently tapping his foot. Time to put sibling rivalry to work.

"Jacob, see Jonah?" I point the little boy in the direction of his brother.

He nods his head.

"Go tell him if he doesn't get within arms reach of Margaret in one minute I'm giving his Playstation away. Make sure everyone around you hears it, too. Okay?"

"Okay, Papa." He gives me a quick hug before dashing off to humiliate Jonah.

"Just another moment, please, Tony." I want to enjoy my handiwork.

"Papa says he'll give your Playstation away!" carries through the ballroom as only the voice of a six-year-old can.

Jonah looks positively mortified when he glances my way. Raised eyebrows and a subtle finger point send him sulking through the chuckling crowd toward Margaret.

"What can I do for you, Senator?" I finally turn my attention to the impatient oaf. It takes almost an hour to extract myself from the conversation about tariffs on the Hudson River.

"How on earth do you keep track of them?" I hear a high-pitched, Southern-accented voice ask as I scoop up Jacob mid-tumble. He was amusing himself by running and sliding around the edge of the dance floor in his new shoes.

Turning, I discover the voice belongs to one of the new congressional representatives. One I have yet to meet.

"I'm sorry, I don't think we've been introduced. Joshua Lyman," I offer her my hand.

"Peggy Nyeland, Georgia's fourth district. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. President." She gives me a faint smile.

Peggy Nyeland? Oh yeah. I remember. Georgia's fourth district was an open seat. We intentionally ran a weak candidate against her because she is a known reactionary. Fire and brimstone, Southern Baptist, anti-everything I believe in.

Isn't this just awkward as hell?

"I'm tired."

Thank you, Jacob, for rescuing me yet again. Congresswoman Nyeland is not someone I should be speaking with alone. I need CJ and Tom here at the very least. Preferably with the entire 82nd Airborne Division and a Marine Expeditionary Unit to boot.

Returning the woman's patently fake smile, I take the opportunity I've been given. "It's nice to put a face with name. I'm sorry, but it's way past bedtime. I need to round up the brood."

Jonah and Isaac both magically appear, streaking past us with Margaret a step behind. I snake a hand out and catch the back of Isaac's jacket.

"Stop!" I order.

Isaac starts to complain, but stops knowing he's pushed his luck today. Jonah trots over without a peep. Margaret looks at me gratefully.

"Bedtime. Let's go."

They put up no argument and Isaac leads the way towards the Residence. CJ intercepts us to kiss them good night.

"You are coming back down?" It's more of a statement than a question.

"Yeah. I'll be back in about thirty minutes."

It's actually closer to forty-five minutes by the time everyone gets tucked in. I find Margaret near the bar, gazing longingly at the dance floor.

"You looking at someone or do you just want to dance?" I whisper in her ear from behind.

She jumps about five feet in the air. "You are a horrible influence on those boys."

"They're in bed, Margaret. Give it a rest."

She takes my offered hand and we hit the dance floor. There are very few safe women around here tonight. Safe meaning they know I'm not looking for anything other than a dance partner. Margaret pawns me off on CJ after the first number, who turns me over to Zoey Bartlet. I didn't even see her and Charlie arrive. Zoey trades me to Carol for the lobbyist who was bending my press secretary's ear. Carol's husband is dancing with an attractive brunette Carol doesn't want him anywhere near.

That hand-off lands me in the middle of the dance floor with Peggy Nyeland.

"Would you like to dance?" I offer, figuring it is the only way out of the situation.

"I would love to, Mr. President."

We finish the dance with about five feet safely between us. With a little effort, I managed to maneuver us to the edge of the crowd. In those brief moments we danced, I came to realize this woman is going to be a pain in my ass for the next two years. She is neither witty nor gracious nor accepting. She is Mary Marsh reincarnate.

It's just after midnight when I pack it in, the party still in full swing. I am not as young as I used to be and the boys will be up at an obscenely early hour. I don't so much go to bed as I collapse, fully dressed, on top of it.

"Josh, come on. Sit up for me." It has to be CJ. She's the only person who calls me Josh anymore.

"I'm awake." I sit up with my eyes still closed.

"You going to undress in your sleep?"

"Done it before."

"I know. It's an acquired skill." She's teasing me like Donna would have.

"CJ?" I take her hand, begging for her reassurance that I'm not alone in my grief.

She sits down on the bed. "I still miss him, Josh. Eight years and it hasn't gone away. I look at men, I admire them, but I have no desire to be with them."

"There are days I doubt I could get it up if I wanted to."

We share a tired smile while I shrug out of my jacket and shoes.

"You are a good friend, Claudia Jean Cregg." Wrapping my arms around her, we snuggle together fully clothed. Nights like tonight I just want somebody to hold and CJ just to be held.


	3. Chapter 3

The agent who serves as my alarm clock almost choked when he first opened the door. Then he noticed both of us were fully clothed.

The same cannot be said for me at this precise moment. I'm standing in the dining room in nothing but boxer shorts, supervising the clean up of a failed experiment in redecorating with cereal. The boys had a food fight this morning and I ended up getting milk and orange juice splattered all over my suit before I could stop it.

From the looks I'm getting from the staff, I gather previous Presidents haven't typically stood around in their underwear displaying an impressive set of scars from a twenty-year-old gunshot wound.

They're going to have to get used to it. I like standing around in my underwear.

Once the mess is cleaned up, I redress and head down to the office. Today is scheduled to be fairly light. I credit that with the fact we haven't had a chance to screw anything up yet.

I'm immersed in an economic report so far over my head I'm contemplating a phone call to Jed Bartlet when Margaret's voice trembles from the doorway.

"Mr. President?"

I look up from the report. "What is it, Margaret?"

"Dr. Bartlet is on the phone."

A sinking feeling settles in the pit of my stomach. I pick up the phone when Margaret patches the call through.

"Abbey?"

"He's gone, Josh." Her voice is filled with anguish.

I swallow hard to hold back my own crushing tidal wave of emotion. "When?"

"Just this morning. You were my first call."

I knew he was ill. I just talked to him yesterday before the inauguration. Abbey told me it was pneumonia. If he had been well, they would have come down.

"Are Ellie and Elizabeth there?" I know where Zoey is.

"No."

Grief can do incredible things to people, even those who are prepared for it. For a week after Donna passed away, I had to be told to feed my squalling infant.

"_Josh? Where's the formula you got at the store. Jacob needs to be fed."_

"Call them. I'll tell Zoey. Don't worry, Abbey, I'll take care of things." Things need to be done which no spouse should have to do, especially without assistance.

"_Josh? Come on, Josh, you need to pull it together. Donna's parents will be here tomorrow. You need to go down to the funeral home and make the arrangements. Jed will go with you and I'll watch the boys."_

Margaret has CJ standing in front of my desk when I hang the phone up. "I'll tell the rest of the staff and then start calling people."

I nod my approval and stride out of the office, down familiar corridors towards Operations. Secret Service agents scrambling to keep up.

"Charlie?" I'm interrupting his pep talk to the executive assistants.

His face pales at the sound of my voice.

"Sir?" One single word conveys so many questions.

"Abbey called." I explain quietly.

"_Josh?"_

"_Yeah, babe?"_

"_It's bad."_

"_How bad?"_

"_The tumor is malignant. The cancer isn't just in the breast."_

"_What are you telling me, Donna?"_

"_The only way they can treat it would kill the baby and it will only increase my life expectancy by a year."_

"_I don't want to lose you."_

"_I can't do that, Joshua. I can't. We've lost too many to abort this one."_

"_If they don't treat it?"_

"_Six months at the most."_

Charlie follows me to Communications. Zoey, our media director, is explaining something to her staff.

"Don't you agree, Mr. President?" She asks me when I stop in her part of the Communications bullpen.

"Zoey."

She looks from me to Charlie and back to me, fear surfacing in her eyes.

"Your mother called."

"No." She whispers it, covering her mouth with her hands, begging it to not be true.

"He passed away this morning." I say the words and make it real.

"_Joshua?"_

"_Donnatella?"_

"_Promise me something?"_

"_Anything."_

"_Promise me you won't be mad at me."_

"_Never, Donna. I will never be mad at you."_

"_I need to go."_

"_I know."_

"_I love you."_

"_My heart belongs to you. It always will."_

"NO!" Zoey's knees give out. I catch her. Wrapping her in my arms, we sink to the floor together. Charlie kneels next to us, his hand a reassuring presence on her shoulder.

"_I'm sorry, Senator. She's gone."_

"_I know. I just… Can I have just a moment with her, please?"_

Here and now, I am not the President of the United States. I am the older brother Zoey never had growing up. I am her friend. I am the immovable object with whom she has weathered so many storms. I am the irresistible force who has believed in her for so many years. I am her stalwart proponent, the one took a bullet for her.

"Why, Josh? Why?" She begs me for answers between her sobs. Answers I still don't have after long years of contemplation.

"I don't know, Zoey. I don't know."

"_Papa? Why did Mama go away?"_

"_I don't know, son."_

"_Are you going away?"_

"_No, Jonah. I'll be right here."_

"_Tell me where Mama went, Papa."_

"_She went to heaven, Jonah."_

"_I want my Mama. Make Mama come home, Papa."_

We sit, the three of us, on the floor of the Communications bullpen while Jed's youngest daughter unburdens her aching heart. I'm not even cognizant of CJ joining us, but she and Charlie finally help Zoey up. Out of habit, more than anything I suppose, they set off towards the Residence. Some of the older Secret Service agents cutting a path no staffer would dare cross.

I go out to the South Lawn where, Agent Williamson informs me, his agents are getting their butts kicked in a snowball fight. My somber appearance quells the action and brings my sons to my side. Isaac's bright eyes search for some reassurance that I do not bring unwelcome news.

"Your Grandma Abbey called this morning," I begin, choosing my words carefully. "You know Grandpa has been sick."

Those bright blue eyes glisten with tears and Isaac turns and runs from me before I can finish, unwilling to hear me say the words.

"He died, didn't he?" Jonah asks, looking in the direction his surrogate brother went.

"Yes, Jonah. This morning." I confirm.

"Is Grandpa with Mama?" Jacob directs his question to Jonah, who nods in response.

"Jonah, will you take Jacob upstairs?" I ask, deciding that I will be the one to go after Isaac.

"_One more game, Toby."_

"_You just want to kick my ass again."_

"_You getting old or something?"_

"_Trying to save some energy for CJ tonight."_

"_Hot date?"_

"_Something like…"_

"_Toby!"_

Agent Williamson directs me to the guard shack near the front gate, where a couple of young Marines have given Isaac refuge. They jump to their feet when I enter the small, but heated, building.

"Can you give us a minute?" I don't really want to send the young men out into the cold, but need to talk to Isaac alone.

A sharp "yes, sir" precedes their hasty exit.

Once alone with this boy I accepted as my own, I sit on the floor next to his chair.

"It's okay to be sad, Isaac." I tell him after a few minutes of silence.

"How did my dad die?"

Spend time with young children and you become accustomed to the twists and turns their minds take, especially the two who share Donna's and my genes. Overexposure to them has brought forth the same traits in Toby's son.

Isaac knows I was with his dad when he died, but he has never asked me about. CJ and I discussed it once a few years ago and agreed the best course would be to tell him the truth if he ever asked.

"Your dad had a heart attack while we were playing racquetball."

"Did he die right away?"

"No," I admit. "He died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital."

"Was he awake?"

"_Josh?"_

"_I'm here, Toby."_

"_Promise me you'll help Claudia."_

"_I swear, Toby. On my grandfather's grave, I'll take care of them like they're my own."_

"Yes, he was. That's when he asked me to take care of you and your mom."

"What did you do?"

"After I promised him I'd take care of you, I told him he was my brother and I loved him; that I owed him my life."

"Was he in pain?"

"Some. He knew he was dying. He tried to hang on to see you and your mom again, to say goodbye. It wasn't meant to be that way."

The silence between us is profound as Isaac struggles to put his next question into words. Unshed tears fill his eyes as he crawls off his chair and onto the floor next to me. I allow him to seek comfort in my arms, offering him what strength he needs.

"Why?"

Isn't that the eternal question, really? Why do these things happen to us? I suppose if I had the answer, I could find the peace I've been searching for my whole life. I hesitate to contemplate the number of times I've pleaded with someone for the reasons behind the agony in my life.

When I was struggling to explain Donna's death to Jonah, my rabbi offered several bits of advice to help me. Some of it I understood at the time and some of it I didn't.

"It is not wise to lay the blame for death at the feet of God in the presence of those who do not understand the purpose of death," he told me. "He gives us only those trials from which we will learn and grow. Without death in this world, we cannot live forever in the next one. Each of us has a purpose here and when it is fulfilled, we move on. If a man lives a righteous life, he may be rewarded in the afterlife."

Only now, as I repeat those long forgotten words to Isaac, do I understand them fully. They do little to lessen the pain of grief, but they make accepting loss a bit easier.

I apologize to the guards for inconveniencing them and usher Isaac back to the Residence. Jonah is waiting for us at the entrance. Together, he and Isaac head for their room. Confident these two mismatched brothers will take care of one another, I return to work in an attempt to make things normal.

I find Jacob in the Oval Office, sitting in my chair reading his favorite Dr. Seuss book, _Did I Ever Tell You How Lucky You Are?_ I lean over the chair and ruffle the top of his head to get his attention.

"Papa, can I go to work with you today?" The earnest request makes me chuckle, since he is sitting in my chair at my desk in my office.

"This is work, Sport."

"Oh," he pauses, biting his lower lip. "Can I stay?"

"Sure. Do you want to sit on the sofa?"

"Yeah!" Jacob bounces out of the chair and dives head first into the big sofa. I hand him his backpack, stuffed with much of his Dr. Seuss collection.

For the better part of an hour, I can hear him reading to himself out loud. A brief check on him as I head out the door finds him sound asleep, curled up with Leo the lion.

My day-old administration is aptly prepared to handle something as familiar as death. My Senior Staff has been with me since I first ran for the Senate, many of them holdovers from the Bartlet years. Having found the strength to tell my sons, summoning the strength to tell the American public is a simple task.

I preempt Carol's afternoon briefing with about 15 minutes warning. The Press Corps scrambles to its feet as I stride to the podium. It has been many years since I stood here for CJ and boldly proclaimed that President Bartlet had a secret plan to fight inflation. A wistful smile reaches my lips at the recollection. Amid the harsh flashbulbs of ill-prepared photographers, I tell everyone to take their seats.

"It is my duty on this day to be the bearer of sad news. Shortly before 11 o'clock, I was informed former President Josiah Bartlet has succumbed to complications brought on by pneumonia. He passed away at 10:30 this morning with his wife, Abigail, at his side. Memorial arrangements are being worked out and will be distributed when they are finalized. I know you join me in extending your sympathies to the Bartlet family in their time of grief."

I take no questions and turn the podium over to Carol. CJ is waiting for me at her desk, Leo's old office, our sanctum in the face of the formality our positions thrust upon us. Away from the world, we gather the protocol officers and begin to make arrangements.


	4. Chapter 4

It has been three days since Abbey's phone call. The protocol office, under my supervision, took care of most details: inviting foreign dignitaries and setting up the arrangements with the church and cemetery. The only thing left is selecting the casket. Abbey and I will do that today.

The boys and I are going up early to say our goodbyes privately. There is a private funeral mass tomorrow and the more public memorial service the next day.

"Mr. President? The helicopter is ready to take you to Andrews."

I nod absently, herding my somber children towards Marine One to begin our journey to New Hampshire. As we strap into our seats, my phone rings. Only a select few people have the number and I have been reluctant to give it up.

"CJ?"

"Josh, I wanted to warn you. Sam will be there."

I haven't seen Sam since he showed up to Donna's funeral stoned.

"_Why are you here?"_

"_She was my friend, Josh."_

"_If you had really cared, Sam, you'd have accepted the help we offered."_

"You called him?" My voice is cold. Sam's decisions are deep wounds in my soul.

"No. He's been living there. Abbey called two minutes ago. She didn't want you to know until it was too late." CJ sounds resigned. All she knows is Sam did something that I haven't been able to let go. She doesn't know what.

"_Joshua Lyman?"_

"_Yes?"_

"_My name is Greg Thompson. I'm with the Baltimore Police Department. Sir, your name is listed as an emergency contact for a Mr. Samuel Norman Seaborn."_

"_What happened?"_

"_Mr. Lyman, Mr. Seaborn was hit head on by a drunk driver this evening. He's being taken to Johns Hopkins Medical Center here in Baltimore."_

"_I'm on my way. I'll be there in an hour."_

We're staying at the house because it is already a Secret Service enhanced fortress. Exiting the limo, my eyes fall on Sam standing in the doorway to the guesthouse.

Ellie comes out to greet us.

"Thank you, for everything," she whispers in my ear when we embrace.

"Don't worry about it. Can you take the boys in? I'm going to…" I jerk my head in Sam's direction.

"Sure. I'll tell Mom."

I wave off the Secret Service agents and walk purposely towards the man I still consider my brother, despite all that has happened between us.

"Sam."

"Mr. President," he replies formally, as unsure of our standing as I am.

I take a hard look at him. He has changed. His hair is grayer; his eyes are less haunted; there is a sense of peace about him that has been missing for many years.

"You got help."

"Yeah. You want to come in? We can talk."

"Sure." I follow him into the sitting room.

"I know I did a lot of things that hurt both you and Donna," he begins. I can tell he's been rehearsing, deciding how to best salve over wounds which have festered for so long.

"_When did this start, Sam?"_

"_After the accident. Donna, it's not that big a deal. Really."_

"_How can you say that? You said you'd watch Jonah for us. Sam, you let him fall down a flight of stairs because you were passed out from the pills. You need help."_

"_Help, Josh? Because asking for help has always been your strong point! What do you know about my pain?"_

"_I know what mine was like. That's why I'm asking you to let us help."_

"_I don't need any damn help."_

His story tumbles from his mouth. "You offered me everything you could, more times than I deserved. Every time, I refused to see the problem. I hit rock bottom when Donna died and stayed there for almost two years. I spent a year in treatment both for the addiction and for the reasons behind it. When I left rehab, I had nothing. Jed and Abbey offered me a job as a speechwriter and a place to live. I've been here for three years. Every time you'd bring the boys up to visit, I'd leave. I couldn't face you. Not after everything that happened, not after not being there for you when you needed me the most."

He surprises me by looking me in the eyes, something he hasn't done in ten years. That simple act alone tells me what I've wanted to hear for so long.

"Sam, I have been angry with you for a long, long time. I couldn't understand why you wouldn't let us help you. Jed said something to me last week that struck me as odd at the time. He said that in times of crisis we either show our true mettle or we learn for the next time. If you can be here for us all now, you will make things right."

I offer him my hand, not sure what to expect. Sam grasps it firmly and I pull him into an embrace.

"I wrote something for you." He hands me an envelope as we walk up to the house together.

"Thank you, Sam. I know it will be perfect."

"Papa?" Jonah meets us at the door. The look on his face tells me he wants to talk to me alone.

Sam goes inside and I guide Jonah over to the front porch swing. This January day in New Hampshire has a bite to it and despite his continuing attempts to be a grown up, Jonah snuggles under my arm, resting his head on my chest.

"What's up, Champ?" I ask softly.

"Can I go with you and Grandma?"

My mother passed away before Jonah could remember her. Abbey and Jed have always considered my boys as their grandsons and treated them accordingly.

"You know what we're going to do?"

He has been very subdued since I told him about Jed's death. Jacob is too young to really comprehend death in a concrete way. He knows his Grandpa is with his Mama. Isaac, after our discussion in the guard shack, is refusing to talk to anyone. Getting him up here was an incredible feat.

"You're going to pick out a casket for Grandpa. Like you did for Mama," he whispers.

"Will going along make you feel better?"

"I want to help."

I nod and hold him close.

Abbey has managed to pull herself together in the last three days. I get a hug and a lecture about sitting out in the cold when I join her in the kitchen.

"Jonah wants to go with us," I tell her quietly.

She narrows her eyes at me, trying to discern the reasons. "Will it help?"

I shrug my shoulders. "I don't know, Abbey, but I know it won't hurt."

"Then it is the right thing to do, isn't it?" She favors me with a brief smile. "Our appointment is in twenty minutes, we do need to leave."

Gathering our coats, my son and I join Abbey in the back of a Suburban for the journey into Manchester. None of the girls want to go along. They are focusing on their own grief-stricken families: four grandchildren and 2 great-grandchildren in need of comfort. I entrust Jacob to Zoey for the afternoon.

Jonah and I are moral support more than anything else. Abbey knows what Jed wanted: something simple and humble. Simple and humble can be difficult to find, however, and it consumes the better part of three hours.

Watching her go through this, I resolve to make things easy for the boys. It would not kill me to prearrange the things which can be. I, of all people, know how fragile life is.

I stand behind Abbey, my hand on her shoulder, silent tears falling from my eyes as they lower the simple, humble casket into the ground. This day has been impossibly difficult. Everywhere I turn painful memories surface, reminding me.

"_Dearest friends, we are gathered here on this day to honor the life of Donnatella Lyman. A woman whose spirit this world could not hold. A woman loved by so many: her husband Joshua, her sons Jonah and Jacob, her parents, her brothers and sisters, her friends."_

Her friends. Our friends. His friends. They surround Abbey as they surrounded me those many years ago, offering their love and sympathy, their strength and support.

Sam's words were beautiful, obviously lovingly crafted. They flowed as if from my own soul. I can only wonder how long he labored over them. They were the words I wish I could have said for Donna. They spoke of my respect and love for the man who helped me through so much, personally and professionally. They brought tears to the eyes of hardened politicians and experienced heads of state.

Sam returned to us a better man than he was before. With firm resolve, he stood at Abbey's side this day as the motorcade pulled away and I truly began my journey as President. It feels real now in a way it didn't before. Maybe because Sam is back, maybe because Jed is gone. There is little time to ponder the true reasons; we have a country to run.


	5. Chapter 5

Once we return to Washington, we are finally able to establish a routine. Routines, I learned long ago, are very important to raising somewhat normal children. Or at least the ability to schedule like a fiend.

We combine a general routine with Margaret's freakish scheduling abilities and come out pretty good most days. I get up every morning at 5 to work out. I have to be done by 6 to get the boys out of bed, cleaned up, fed and off to school by 7:00. I'm in the Oval Office no later than 7:15 and I work straight through until 6 p.m. We have dinner as a family every night at 6:30. CJ and I check homework after that and we have a couple hours of family time. Once the boys are in bed, I typically go back to the office until midnight.

The school day starts at 7:30. The boys attend the same private school they've been going to since Jonah and Isaac started first grade. Jacob is usually home by 3:30 each afternoon. He occupies a small section of the Oval Office in the afternoon to do his homework or read or color or otherwise entertain himself under my watchful eye. Most visitors don't even realize he's there. Isaac and Jonah both play basketball and have practice after school. They aren't home until 4:30, at which point Jonah bugs Margaret by trying to help her do her job and Isaac annoys his mother. All three are in bed by 9 o'clock at the latest.

CJ is up at 5 with me, but she sneaks in an hour of solitude before going down to the office at 6:30. She works twelve-hour days and rides herd on the boys if I have to work late.

Saturday is sacred and not just because it is the Sabbath. My staffers are required to take one full day off each weekend. It doesn't matter which day, but I want them at home with their families for an entire day each week. The other day is a half-day, unless the world is going to hell.

CJ and I work Sunday afternoons. We continue our Saturday tradition of morning temple and afternoon play, fiercely guarding our free time. I am accessible any other time, but our national security is the only thing important enough to interrupt Saturdays with my children and we have re-evaluated exactly what constitutes national security.

January fades into February and then into March. At the end of the first quarter, we get the first positive economic indicator of the year: the GDP is down again, but by the smallest margin in four years. That precipitates a Wall Street spending spree and drives the Dow to its highest point in same time period. The administration stresses cautious optimism and prays the growth continues.

The weather in DC turns vicious towards the middle of the month. Winter, like the recession, is refusing to loosen its grip on us.

March 20th is typically the day we celebrate Jacob's birthday. I picked that date to make it a joyous occasion of its own and separate it from the not so pleasant days surrounding his actual birthday. The fall is packed with birthdays and anniversaries and sadness of its own. The beginning of spring seemed a perfect time to celebrate.

After much discussion, and hair pulling from the Secret Service, we agreed Jacob could have a party on the Sunday before his 'birthday.' He was hoping for good weather and a pony. He got a blizzard and enough books to keep him occupied until I'm out of office.

Hosting a party for 18 six-year-olds is a bigger thing than organizing a State Dinner. We thought about feeding them all lunch, then CJ brought up the impressive range of food allergies Jacob's classmates seem to have. The chocolate cake and vanilla ice cream went over just fine and nobody got hives.

The two-hour get-together went well and for first time in a long while I found myself having fun. Mostly because I spent the day with a secret.

Jacob has an obsession with horses. I thought that particular childhood phenomenon was confined to the realm of girls. I thought incorrectly. Jacob is the only child I know who sits in front of ESPN Classic and watches old horse-jumping shows. It's freakish and I blame Donna.

Anyway, back to my secret. The last child has been sent home and we relaxing in the living area watching Jonah and Isaac play video games. Jacob is sitting on the sofa with me, reading one of his new books.

"Did you have a good birthday, Sport?" I ask, winking at CJ.

It is all I can do to not laugh when he scrunches his face up to think about my question. His eyebrows meet above his nose and his lips purse together.

"Yeah, Papa. I did," he finally decides.

Spring Break is next week and we are going home for 9 days. Not home to Georgetown, because what would the point of that be? We're going home, home. This is where Jacob will get his surprise.

When Donna and I got married, Leo and the Bartlets pooled together with a few other people and bought us an acreage in northeastern Connecticut, not far from the Massachusetts border. Twenty-five acres of woods to be precise. Not a building on it, not a road through it. All it had was a stream and a lot of trees.

Donna built her dream home, a six-bedroom, three-bathroom, modern-day log cabin. It's Wisconsin rustic, built in a turn-of-the-18th-century New England fashion and located in the middle of Connecticut horse country.

She always claimed it was the perfect place to raise children and goats. Which is what Abbey Bartlet always told me they had in mind when they gave it to us. At the moment, the only permanent residents are the wildlife.

And the horse who arrives on Wednesday.

"I still owe you a present, you know," I mention casually.

Jacob closes his book and crawls across the sofa to my lap. Jonah and Isaac, who are both in on the surprise, pause their game and grin in anticipation.

I put a great deal of thought into how to give him this gift, forming and discarding numerous scenarios until Jonah showed me the book he'd picked out for his little brother: an illustrated, easy-to-read version of _Black Beauty_. I correctly assumed it would be the first book Jacob would read.

"What did you get me, Papa?" Those huge brown eyes sparkle at me in anticipation. I am the master of birthday gifts and he knows it.

"Where's your book?"

He scrambles off my lap and grabs the discarded picture book. "Here."

"Have you finished it, yet?" He reads very well for a first grader, so it wouldn't shock me if he had.

"No." The ear to ear smile on his face fades a bit.

"Why don't you cheat and read the last page first?" I suggest.

His eyebrows draw back together while he considers committing this grave reading sin.

"Can't," he states firmly, sticking to his guns and refusing read the end first.

"Why don't you finish reading it before you go to bed tonight, then?"

"'Kay."

I shake my head in silent laughter when he curls back up in the corner of the sofa, returning to the magical pages where little boys can take care of horses.

Jonah rolls his eyes at me, then goes back to his video game.

The birthday boy falls asleep with five pages left in his book. When I pick him up to take him to bed, I realize I will not be able to coddle him much longer. In another year, he'll want to spend more time with his older brothers and far less time with his father. I will no longer need to carry him to bed and cut the crusts off his peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. My sons are growing up and I am simply getting old.


	6. Chapter 6

Vice-President Miller, his wife and daughter are joining us on our vacation get-away; Isaac is not. This is the week each year he spends with Toby's parents in New York. CJ plans to split her time between New York and Connecticut.

To make things easier, we fly into Boston on Saturday morning. CJ and Isaac hop a commuter jet for New York while the Millers and my family take a motorcade to the house. Abbey Bartlet, my co-conspirator, is also joining us this week.

I will admit to not being very fond of Gregory Miller, his wife Angela or their daughter Jessica. Something about them simply rubs me the wrong way; I don't trust them. Jonah is infatuated with Jessica, however. She, for some odd reason, seems to revel in his attentions.

Jacob stills thinks girls are icky and joins me in frequently teasing Jonah about his crush.

Years ago, before we even had the house finished, we built a small barn and paddock. They were originally for Donna's goats. We never did get the goats, but the barn has been maintained with the house and grounds. It sits behind the house, but the paddock is visible from the driveway.

Jacob finished his book the night after his party and has been bouncing off the walls all week. Tucked in the last page, he found a gift certificate from me to a tack and horse supply store here in Connecticut.

The horse is actually from his Grandma Abbey, who is standing by the gate waiting for us.

"Papa?" He's kneeling on the seat of the limo, peering out the window.

"Jacob?"

"When did you get a horse?"

"I didn't get a horse. But if you go talk to your Grandma Abbey, she might explain why it's here." I tell him as the car stops.

He opens the door and flies up the driveway before I can blink.

"GRANDMA!" He yells, throwing himself into her arms.

"I think he's a little excited," Jonah looks up at me.

I wrap my arm around his slender shoulders as we walk up to the paddock. "You're okay with this? I mean I know you don't want a horse, but…"

"Papa, it's cool. I understand."

"Who are you and what have you done with my son Jonah?" I tease him to cover the surge of mixed emotions I'm experiencing. I've never felt such pride in him and yet, it is not without regret. He may only be eleven, but he is a man in almost every sense of the word. I feel like I haven't been for him like I am for Jacob. I feel like I neglected him somehow when he was younger.

Jonah has never been as affectionate with me as Jacob is. Jonah is his mother's child. Donna decided to be a stay-at-home mom after Jonah's birth, doing a bit of volunteer work here and there to keep active in the community. I accepted the role of disciplinarian, which frequently found me dishing out punishments from the moment I walked in the door at night. Our little boy would then run to his mother for consolation.

The one thing I made sure to do every night was tuck him in and read him a story. It was the only real time he and I had alone together when Donna was alive. Once she was gone and Jacob became a part of our lives, our dynamic shifted. His behavior improved, but he withdrew in many ways, mostly emotional. In some ways, I doubt I'll ever truly know what he's thinking or who he is.

Jacob has climbed to the top of the gate and is patting the horse on the nose. Abbey assured me it is a gentle creature, well-trained and good with kids.

"Can I ride him, Papa?" Jacob asks eagerly.

"Not until you get a helmet. And don't even ask, we'll go shopping after lunch."

Shopping involves not just a helmet, but a saddle, a blanket, a bridle, a halter, along with an amazing assortment of buckets, brushes, ointments and various other equine-related pieces of equipment.

I decide it's all worth it based on the look of sheer rapture on Jacob's face when he sits on his horse for the first time. Abbey leads him around the paddock a few times, letting him get used to the way the horse moves. I simply watch from my spot at the wooden gate. Jonah is with me, sitting on the top rail.

Our solitude is interrupted by the arrival of Jessica Miller and her mother.

"What's the big deal? It's just a horse. Boys aren't even supposed to like horses." Jessica is smacking on a piece of gum and going out of her way to be unpleasant.

I pulled a couple of strings to get her into the same private school my boys go to, but I've been regretting it ever since. It took one academic quarter for me to understand why nobody would accept her.

She's dumb as a post.

I should take that back. I doubt she's stupid, she just doesn't exert any effort in school. She is very into boys and clothes and music. In and of itself, that isn't a big deal. Jonah and Isaac are both very into girls and sports and music. They, however, know they are expected to perform in the classroom or their extracurricular activities will be the first things to go.

Her comment about it just being a horse achieves something I thought impossible: a look of disdain from my oldest.

"Why don't you leave my brother alone?" Jonah tosses back in a tone of voice I know he learned from me. I typically use it on uncooperative congressmen.

"It doesn't take a rocket scientist to ride a horse around a corral is all I'm saying," she bristles, ducking between the rails of the fence and approaching the animal.

What happened next happened so fast, none of us could stop it. Jessica came up on the horse from behind and smacked it on the hindquarters. The horse reared, ditching Jacob off and kicking the girl in the head before jumping the fence and taking off into the woods.

I reach them first with Jonah at my heels and Abbey Bartlet right behind us. Jacob is sitting up, trying to catch his breath. Jonah kneels next to him, instructing him to calm down and take slow, shallow breaths.

Satisfied my son is relatively unharmed, I turn my attention to the girl. She isn't moving and Abbey has yet to turn her over. Mrs. Miller is still standing outside the fence, staring at the scene in shock. The sound of a slamming door and the crunch of gravel alerts me to Greg's approach.

He comes to a halt just a foot away from where Abbey and I are crouched over his daughter. Abbey is mumbling to herself, checking for a pulse and broken bones. Jessica is deathly pale and unresponsive to Abbey's touch, but there is no blood.

"What happened?" Greg demands.

When nobody replies, he repeats his question. "What the hell happened?"

Glancing up, I catch the eye of an agent who witnessed the incident. He nods at me and pulls Greg to the side, explaining.

"What do you think?" I ask softly.

"Closed head wound," she shrugs, unable to do much. "I don't want to move her without a backboard."

"Is she going to be okay?"

"I don't know, Josh. Maybe, but a CT scan will tell us more."

The air ambulance, kept on 24/7 standby when I'm in town, arrives just as Abbey finishes her cursory examination.

She quietly consults with Agent Williamson and I. We agree getting the girl quick medical attention is the priority. Moments later, the military helicopter containing Jessica, her parents and Abbey, is on the way to Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston. Not only is it the closest hospital capable of dealing with a trauma like this, Abbey is still on staff there.

Once they are off, I am able to turn my full attention to Jacob. The detail agents have learned Jonah is far better at consoling Jacob when he's injured then they can ever be. Their standard operating procedure for his bumps and bruises is to simply let Jonah handle it. If he can't, my presence is required.

The two boys are sitting on the front porch of the house. Jacob is cradling his arm, tears streaming down his face.

"He says the whole thing hurts," Jonah tells me when I sit down on Jacob's other side.

Running my hands over it, I can feel where the first break is by the swelling midway down his bicep muscle.

"Did you land on it?" I ask him, continuing to run my hand down his arm.

Jacob nods his head, whimpering louder when I find the second break in his forearm.

"Does your shoulder hurt?"

From the way his arm is hanging, I figure it is probably dislocated as well.

"Sir? We're ready." Agent Williamson gestures to the black Suburban.

Rather than bother with an ambulance, he decided to just get a police escort for one of the unmarked cars. Jonah and I help Jacob climb into back seat.

I brief Carol quickly before getting in, instructing her to keep the press as at bay and uninformed as possible and to call CJ. We share a look regarding the cause of this fiasco. Both of us know the horse will likely have to be destroyed because of it.

The pediatric emergency team is ready for us when we arrive. They take Jacob from my arms and settle him onto a gurney, hustling off to Radiology. The noise and commotion, along with the anxiety of being separated from my son, is surreal. I begin to feel as if I'm watching this scene from above. We are ushered to the side and asked to wait for a doctor to come talk to us.

The slamming of a cart into metal-plated doors triggers the first uncontrollable flashback I've had since that horrible Christmas 18 years ago.

"_Josh? Josh, can you hear me?"_

"_He's unresponsive. It's been almost thirty minutes."_

"_We're looking at a lot of blood loss here."_

"_Josh? Pupils are dilated and unresponsive."_

"_Blood pressure is 80 over 30. Pulse is weak."_

"_Josh, hang on pal. We're gonna help you, but you have to stay with us."_

"_Blood pressure is dropping! I lost his pulse completely."_

"Papa? Papa, what's wrong?" Jonah's frightened voice penetrates the ringing in my ears.

Blinking my eyes, I realize I'm in a curtained off treatment room with Jonah and my lead agent.

"Mr. President?" Agent Williamson looks extremely concerned.

"I, yeah. It's okay. I just, I have a thing about emergency rooms." The excuse sounds lame to my own ears.

"Do I need to get someone, sir?" The Secret Service has a plan they practice in case I have a PTSD episode, but if I'm lucid it requires my approval. The question Derrick is posing is a coded one. My response determines his. It's one of the many things we discussed when I took office.

"No, Derrick. I just, I'm okay." I take a deep breath. "I just need to see Jacob. I'm sure he's in more dire straits than I am."

"I'll find out where he is. Wait here, sir."

Jonah has backed away from me, fear still bright in his eyes. Dropping into the room's only chair, I motion him over to join me. Staring down at his feet, arms rigid at his sides, he stands between my knees. The sobs come when I wrap my arms around him.

In the past three months, I have found myself fulfilling the role of comforter-in-chief far more often than I would like. "It's okay, Jonah. I promise, everything is going to be okay."

"What happened to you?" His hands clutch at my jacket. "Mr. Williamson was talking to you and you just stopped."

"Shh," I hold him tighter, rubbing his back and letting his tears soak my shoulder. In his entire life, I have never seen him like this. Jonah doesn't show much emotion and he has never let me see him cry.

"Papa, I'm scared. Jacob is hurt and what if Jessica isn't okay? If I hadn't…"

"Jonah, stop. None of this is your fault. You stuck up for your brother. Something I've always told you to do. Later, you and I will sit down and talk about what happened to me a few minutes ago. Okay?"

"Okay." He sounds very unsure of his response, but he has managed to get his crying under control.

It isn't long before Derrick sticks his head back in. "There's a doctor here to see you, sir. And Dr. Bartlet said she'd find you when she's got news. They're doing a CT scan now."

"Thank you, Derrick. Give us a minute." I wipe Jonah's tears, letting him compose himself before I pull back the curtain and motion for the doctor to join us.

"Mr. President, I'm Dr. Nicholas Friedman, chief of pediatric medicine," the doctor offers his hand. I shake it and give him a once over. Short, overweight, glasses, gray hair, probably about 55 or so – he looks like a doctor, not an administrator and that comforts me.

"Josh Lyman." It's a habit I can't seem to break. "My son, Jonah."

Dr. Friedman surprises me by offering his hand to Jonah. Most people I deal with barely acknowledge the existence of my boys when introduced to them or treat them with juvenile contempt.

With one simple act, this man earns my complete trust.

"I'm sorry we separated the three of you. I'm sure you can understand, many parents flip out a bit when we're examining their children. It can be uncomfortable for everyone. Furthermore, you being, well, the leader of the free world and all, it would have been even more intimidating. I do need to have you sign a couple of forms. The injuries are going to require surgery. Your son's arm is broken in three places and the shoulder is dislocated. Also his collarbone snapped, which is not an uncommon injury in boys his age." He is direct and to the point.

Jonah holds his own arm and winces in sympathy.

"How bad are the breaks?" Visions of compound fractures dance through my overactive imagination.

"The collarbone and upper arm are simple fractures. We can't do much about the collarbone except immobilize his arm, which we'll be doing anyway. The humerus, the upper arm bone, is snapped midway between the shoulder and the elbow. It's a nice clean break and just needs to be set and cast. The radius, the lower bone on this side," he holds his arm out palm up and points to the outside, "is broken in two places. That's what needs surgery. Trust me when I say you don't want the details right now. We'll pop his shoulder back into place at the same time. He's going to need to stay at least a couple of days."

I sign the surgical release and confirm he has no allergies or other conditions.

"When can we see him?" I ask, handing back the clipboard with the forms on it.

"Now, if you want, sir. I can take you up."

"Please."

Jacob's Service detail is hovering around the hallway like a pack of lions. One of them grabs the door and opens it for me. It breaks my heart to look at him lying there with the offending arm stabilized and an IV snaking out from the other.

Tony Franklin thoughtfully brought Jacob's book bag along and is reading to him, trying to keep him occupied.

The agent stands up when we enter the room. "I'll go ahead and wait outside."

"It's okay, Tony. Thank you for staying with him."

"Papa?" Jacob reacts to the sound of my voice. They've given him some pretty good painkillers. His voice is slurred and his eyes are half-shut.

"Hey, Sport." I sit on the edge of the bed and brush the hair off his forehead.

"I'm sleepy," he mumbles.

"Yeah. The doctors are going to put you to sleep and fix your arm." I tell him.

"It hurts."

"Well, you broke it, you dork." Jonah snorts from the other side of the bed, teasing him.

"Don't make fun of me."

"It's okay, Jacob. I'm just jealous you get all the attention." His attempt to appease his brother is met with a soft snore, the drugs finally overcoming his feeble resistance.

It isn't long before they come to get him for surgery. I decline the offer to watch, figuring I can use this time to talk to Jonah and not really wanting to see what they are going to do to my baby boy. Dr. Friedman promised to explain everything after the fact and assured me he would do the surgery himself. I was not surprised to learn he is a highly respected, pediatric orthopedic surgeon.

Ignoring the astounded looks of the nurse and orderly who are waiting, I gently kiss Jacob's forehead before allowing them to take him. Their response makes me wonder when people stopped considering me a man and a father.

The window in Jacob's room looks over a small park and I fold myself into the ledge, remembering how I'd so desperately wanted to look outside while I was confined to the cardiac care unit at GW so many years ago.

"Papa," Jonah begins hesitantly. His face telling me things he can't begin to vocalize.

"Come up here with me," I interrupt him. Jonah frowns for a second but with a bit of effort, he molds himself to me, his back to my chest, his head tucked under my chin.

"I need you to understand something, son. The things I'm going to tell you about happened a long time ago. Before you were born and even before your mother and I were dating. Do you understand?"

"Like history class," He sounds lost and frightened. I tighten my hold on him, almost clutching him to my battered chest, trying to reassure us both.

Jonah knows small portions of this, but not much and he knows none of the details. All three of the boys have seen the scars on my chest. I've never hidden them, but I've never made an issue of them either. None of the of the kids know how I got them.

Jonah knows I don't like hospitals, but I've always allowed him to believe my dislike stems from his mother's death, which did nothing for my feelings. He alone knows there are incidents in my past referred to in his presence as 'that May' and 'that Christmas.'

He does not know what those incidents are.

I nod, even though he can't see me. "Right. Like history class. You know Charlie and I worked for your Grandpa Jed a long time ago, right? Back when he was President?"

"Uh huh. Grandpa said you were a shitty staffer."

"Okay, you know better than to use that word and I was not."

"Sure, Papa. I believe you." He finally relaxes a bit in my arms and his sarcasm has made a return. Both good signs.

"Grandpa was President when Zoey and Charlie first started dating. A lot of people weren't happy about them seeing each other."

"Why not? They're really happy."

How do I explain bigotry to a child? Although, he'll be exposed to it sooner rather than later. A surprising number of semi-literate apes object to an observant Jew holding my job and would have no qualms with eliminating my offspring to prove their point, whatever the hell their point is.

"Because they thought Charlie shouldn't date a white woman." I start simple.

"Why not?"

"There are some people out there who believe you shouldn't love someone who isn't your race or religion."

"I don't get it."

"I don't get it either, Jonah."

"What do Charlie and Zoey have to do with earlier?"

"Your Grandpa was speaking in Rosslyn one night and we were all with him: Charlie and Zoey and CJ and I and Isaac's dad, Toby. When we were leaving, some of those people who thought Charlie and Zoey shouldn't be together tried to kill Charlie with guns."

"Like in the movies?" He sounds a little excited, like it's a video game. I think I need to curtail his exposure to violence.

"Sort of, except they were really trying to kill him."

"What happened?"

"They missed Charlie," I state firmly.

"Who did they shoot?"

"They shot a woman named Stephanie Abbott in the leg and a man named Ron Butterfield in the hand. They also shot your Grandpa in the side," I pause to take a deep breath.

Jonah jumps on my hesitation, but his voice quivers a bit. "Who else did they shoot?"

"Me." I affirm what I sense he figured out for himself. "I came out of the building behind everyone else and they shot me in the chest."

"What did you do?"

"I don't remember. I know Toby found me after a while. I almost bled to death before he did."

"But Isaac's dad found you." Jonah pleads, a drop of wetness lands on my arm, alerting me to his tears.

"And a very talented surgeon spent 14 hours fixing the damage. I was in the hospital for three months and once I got home, your mother didn't let me leave my apartment for another three months. That's when I realized I was in love with her. It took a long time for me to better, though."

I stop talking, not sure how to get from here to the PTSD. Not sure how to explain the terrors and the flashbacks. We sit in silence for a while, each lost in our own thoughts.

"I'm sorry you got hurt, Papa. But I'm glad you got better and married Mama."

His nearly cheerful comment provides me the opening I need. "It wasn't quite that easy, Champ. After I went back to work, I still wasn't okay. I would jump at loud noises and I was mad all the time. I couldn't control my temper. I said horrible things to people. Music sounded like sirens and reminded me of the ambulances. I'd be in my office, hear the music and all of a sudden in my mind, I'd be back in the night of the shooting. Your mom made me get help and get well. That's what happened earlier. When the cart banged against the doors, the sound made me think I was back in the hospital right after I got shot. I was remembering that night."

"Oh."

I can tell he has questions he wants to ask, but is afraid to. I understand, I'm afraid to answer them.

"Did it hurt?"

"Getting shot?" I want to make sure I'm giving him the answer he wants.

"Yeah."

"Not right away. It knocked me off my feet. Then it took me a few minutes to realize what happened. It hurt after that, I couldn't breath and I panicked. It hurt for a long time afterwards, too. They had to cut into my chest to get the bullet out; it stopped near my heart. Those wounds took a long time to heal and they hurt sometimes even afterwards."

We sit quietly for a bit longer, each lost in our own thoughts. Mine revolve around reassuring him that this doesn't happen very often.

"Jonah, I need you to know something," I decide straightforward is the best approach to take. "What happened earlier hasn't happened in a very long time. Since before your mother and I got married. And it probably won't happen again, but I can't promise you that. I can promise you I will always be here for you. I can promise you I will always love you."

"Josh?"

I turn my head at the interruption and see Abbey in the doorway.

"How bad?" I ask, bluntly.

"She's in surgery. The CT scan showed an epidural haematoma," she shakes her head at my blank stare. "Bleeding between the brain and the skull, Josh. Along with a skull fracture. If they got in there soon enough, she has a pretty good chance."

I nod my head in understanding, thinking about how much worse things could be.

"Are you okay?" She's scrutinizing me with her doctor-look.

"I've had better days." I admit. Acknowledging, indirectly, I am bothered by the idea of a PTSD flare-up.

"Jonah, how are you?" Abbey turns her attention to the young man still sitting on my lap.

He just shrugs and leans deeper into the safety of my embrace. I'm not sure what is unnerving him more, the accident or my episode.

"Have you called CJ yet?" Her eyes return to mine, conveying it is not an idle question.

"No, I haven't had a chance."

"An hour drive up here and you didn't have a chance?" CJ's voice storms into the room a millisecond before the rest of her does.

"Why don't you and I go get something to drink?" Abbey offers her hand to Jonah, content to leave me to the wrath of my best friend. Jonah reluctantly climbs down and leaves with her.

"What the hell happened, Josh?" CJ demands once they've left the room.

"An accident happened. CJ, I was standing right there. So were Abbey and Angela Miller."

"The Vice-President's daughter got kicked in the head by the horse you gave your six-year-old son for his birthday. That's what the press is going to think happened."

I turn my head away from her and stare out the window. Anger wells up inside me, anger at myself and for the first time in a long time I find myself angry with God. Has my family not suffered enough? When I find myself angry with CJ for playing the role of Chief of Staff when I need her to be my confidante, I decide it's time to go for a walk.

Prying myself from my perch, I leave without speaking a word, afraid of what I'll say. I stalk the hallways of Mass General with a single Secret Service agent shadow. Derrick has the rest of them spread throughout the pediatric wing at strategic intervals.

My stride slows when I find what I've been unconsciously looking for: the chapel. The young agent goes in with me, but quickly leaves when she determines there is no threat.

A pew near the back corner beckons me. I sit, slightly uncomfortable with the obvious Christian overtones of this nondenominational sanctuary. Boston is a very Catholic city. I learned at Harvard that nondenominational frequently means 'not Catholic.'

Twenty years ago I threw a rabbi out of my hospital room when he came to visit me. My return to the synagogue was a slow and painful one, primarily facilitated by Toby's influence in my life. As our problems sought to overwhelm us during the MS scandal, he began inviting me to join him at temple on Saturday mornings. I would occasionally accept his offer and go.

I was raised within a Reform temple and found Toby's Conservative one too conservative for my beliefs. Rather than stop going entirely, I set out on a quest to find what I was looking for. I sampled temples from Manassas, Virginia to Annapolis, Maryland before finding a small, family-oriented synagogue in downtown D.C. about the same time I proposed to Donna.

Our wedding was there, in a Jewish ceremony her parents refused to attend or accept. It was only after Donna's diagnosis that her mother spoke to me with civility. She still chafes at my raising Jonah and Jacob in the Jewish faith.

After I married Donna, I found myself attending temple weekly, looking for guidance on how to be a better husband to my wife, a better father to my son. When Jonah was about two and capable of sitting through the service, I began taking him with me.

During Donna's illness, I turned to God for strength. I accepted his trials and asked him to help me through them. My rabbi was a source of wisdom and advice when I had few other places to turn; he found a Christian colleague to bury my wife in the rites of her beliefs while considering mine; he sat shiva with me when so many of my acquaintances shied away.

In the years since my faith has never wavered in the way it did when I was younger, when I found myself at a crossroads of embarrassment and pride at being Jewish. Now I am a man who regularly attends temple, without qualm, a man who finds pride in nothing other than his children and their accomplishments.

Resting my elbows on my knees, I drop my face into my hands, suddenly ashamed of my anger. I don't know how much time passes before I feel an arm wrap around my hunched shoulders.

"I'm sorry, Josh." From the tone of CJ's voice, I know Abbey told her. "Nobody said anything."

I lift my face up, resting my chin on my palms. "I had just finished explaining it to Jonah."

"How did it go?"

"As well as I could expect. He doesn't really understand."

"You're going to have to explain it to Isaac, before Jonah…"

"The only thing those two boys should be worrying about is whether I'm going to be coaching Little League this summer," I interrupt harshly.

"You're not, you know. Tom's supposed to talk to you about it next week." CJ changes tack to my coaching prospects.

"The hell I'm not. I've been coaching those boys since they were five and playing tee ball. I managed to do it around campaigning last summer, I'm pretty sure we can figure out a way to get it done this year."

"It looks bad, Josh. All of this does."

"It looks bad for me to continue coaching my sons' Little League baseball team?" I swear I have no idea what this conversation is about, but I'm tired of being told I can't do things with or for the boys because it will look bad.

"Look, I'm going to leave and come back in. We'll start this over again."

I reach over and put my hand on CJ's knee, preventing her from going. "Stay."

"I'm not fighting with you today, Josh. You aren't close to rational: Jacob is in surgery, you had an episode for the first time in how many years and it happened in front of Jonah. It should be pretty damn obvious to you at this point, you cannot protect them forever." CJ's words are harsh, but delivered with gentleness.

"We made a promise, CJ. We promised all three of them things wouldn't change this much." I'm not sure who I'm pleading for: our children or myself.

"If you promise them they'll never grow up, will it happen?"

I contemplate her words for a long time before I decide I really do want to be alone.

"Don't wallow in it." My friend finally gives me an understanding smile when I ask her to go.

"I just want to finish my conversation." I reply, tilting my head towards the front of the chapel.

"You don't actually think God talks back to you, do you?"

My discussions with God have been a source of endless mirth for CJ, especially since I present such an agnostic face to the public. Her favorite joke is once God starts answering me, she's having me committed.

"No, but it makes me feel better."

"I'll talk to Tom again about the coaching," she concedes as she leaves me to my prayers.

Jonah is alone when I return to Jacob's room. Sitting on the bed, he is engrossed in the pages of a book.

"What are you reading?" I ask, sitting next to him and placing my hand on his back.

He holds the book up so I can see the title, _Where the Red Fern Grows_. With little effort, I remember the story from my own childhood. I didn't even realize the book was still in print.

"Where'd you find that one?" I know it isn't one of his school reading assignments. The next book on that particular list is _The Diary of Anne Frank_, a book which will be cause for considerable conversation between Isaac, Jonah and myself.

"Grandma got it for me out of the library. I got this one, too." He hands me _Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing_ for my approval. "They're okay, aren't they?"

"Sure, Jonah. They're fine." I didn't realize the hospital even had a library.

We sit in silence for a bit. Jonah, working his way through the beginning of the book with me gently rubbing his back and reading over his shoulder.

"Papa?" He looks up at me, full of uncertainty.

"Hmm?"

"Will you read to me?"

I haven't read to Jonah since CJ and Isaac moved in with us, five years ago. He didn't want to seem immature in front of his friend, so he asked me to stop.

"Of course I will."

We settle back on the bed, Jonah again accepting the comfort of my arms.

"From the beginning?" he asks, shyly, handing over the book.

"From the beginning," I agree, opening the classic tale of Billy Colman and his coonhounds: Old Dan and Little Ann.

Jonah falls asleep before Billy ever goes to town to get his pups. Dog-earing the page, I set the book down and pull my son closer to me.

A double-knock precedes Abbey's entrance into the room.

"_Where the Red Fern Grows_, Abbey? You're killing me, you know that?" I raise my eyebrows at her while softening my words with a smile.

She sits on the bed next to us and brushes a stray curl from Jonah's forehead. "It was that or _Are You There God, It's Me Margaret_ and I figured you didn't want to explain the principles of female sexuality to your eleven year old son."

I have to chuckle, if only because both Jonah and Isaac are due for the Advanced Birds and Bees discussion. "How's Jessica?"

"It looks good, Josh. It really does. They did a craniotomy to elevate the pressure and the second CT scan has some positive indicators."

I breathe a sigh of relief.

"And they're almost finished putting Jacob's arm back together. I'll come get you when he's in recovery." She squeezed my shoulder and left the room, leaving me to cry silent tears of thanks.


	7. Chapter 7

CJ was half-right. Someone was crucified by the press for carelessness and pathetic parenting. It just wasn't me; it was the Millers. There wasn't much I could do for them, nor did I particularly try. Their daughter's prognosis was a full recovery. She was actually out of the hospital in three days.

Jacob's injuries required a permanent set of pins and plates, along with a weeklong hospital stay after he developed an infection.

I don't recommend attempting to conduct the business of government from the pediatric wing of a hospital; it isn't very productive.

The Secret Service was able to corral Jacob's horse. After a long discussion with my staff and advisors, I decided not to destroy the animal. By the time we vacation again, Jacob's arm will be healed and he'll be able to attempt horseback riding again.

Jonah became my short shadow. Deprived of his normal friends and diversions, he took an active interest in what I do, as opposed to the tolerance he displayed before. With only a bit of joking, I made the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Army General Raymond Sepanic, give him a briefing on keeping his mouth shut and had my National Security Advisor issue him a security clearance.

It was easier than sending him out of the room every two minutes.

I continued to read to him at night and he continues to confide his secrets in me. Of all the things which have come from the tragedies in my life, this is one of the few things I can point to and say 'this is why this happened.'

Jacob is one of the others.

CJ went back to New York after the first day. She promised to tell Isaac I needed to talk to him about something important when we got home to Washington. Jonah swore he wouldn't say anything to his brothers until I'd had a chance to talk to them both. For Isaac that means next week; for Jacob it means five or six years from now.

Our two missing family members meet us on the plane for the trip back to DC. Isaac pesters Jonah for details the instant they see each other. I give them a nod and wave them off before helping Jacob get settled, but not before I hear Isaac ask Jonah if he knows what I want to talk to him about.

He doesn't have to wait long, I sit him down when we get back to the Residence and explain everything to him. He is also confused by premise that someone could hate another person so much.

Later in the evening, I find my mind circling the problem, constantly returning to the question of how to explain hate to a child who has never been exposed to it.

Sitting in my study, trying to read briefing memos for tomorrow, I glance up and my eyes fall on a picture of my grandfather. My mother's father was a Dutch Jew, who suffered first in the refugee camp of Westerbork, then at Auschwitz and Birkenau and finally on the death marches from Poland into Germany.

When my mother passed away, Donna and I stumbled across Grandfather's papers while sorting through hers. He had written day-by-day accounts of the atrocities he endured and survived on scraps of whatever was available. Somewhere along the line, those scraps had been translated into English and bound into books.

I remember the period of my life when I read them vividly. I was struggling to find my place in the Senate, to make a name for myself apart from President Bartlet's attack dog. Jonah was just a year old, Donna was two months pregnant and I was questioning my fitness as father.

In those pages, I connected with my heritage far more strongly than I had ever before. I knew what it was to be hated simply for being Jewish. I knew what resulted when that hate was given a breeding ground and allowed to flourish. Grandfather's words gave me a context to put what I had suffered into. Nothing I went through could compare to his trials.

Pulling the first volume down, I flip it open:

_November 18, 1939_

_My friend Jacques came today to the shop to tell me Greta would have to go to Westerbork because the government was sending all German Jews there. He told me it didn't matter that she was married to me, a Dutch citizen, or not. I asked him if I would be allowed to go with her, for I cannot bear the thought of being separated from her. I suppose it is the flush of being newlyweds, still. Our first anniversary is next week. Jacques told me he'd find out and get back to me._

Grandfather was only 19 years old when he wrote those words. Greta was barely 18. They had met when she had come to Amsterdam with her father on a clandestine business trip. Grandfather had immediately fallen for the young woman and persuaded her to stay in the Netherlands with him. They married after only a month – November 24, 1938. Greta was not my grandmother.

"Papa?" Jonah's face peeks through the crack in the door.

Closing the book, I motion for him to enter.

"What's the matter?" It's nearly midnight – long past his bedtime.

"I couldn't sleep."

"Couldn't sleep or did you wake up?"

In the shadows of my study, the paleness of his face accentuates dark circles under his eyes. He hasn't been sleeping very well since we talked during Jacob's surgery; I spent several long nights watching him thrash about in his sleep.

"I had a bad dream."

Getting out of the wooden desk chair, I cross the room and take a seat on the burgundy leather sofa. Jonah curls up beside me, resting the side of his face on my thigh.

"Do you want to tell me about it?"

"You were giving a speech someplace," his voice quivers as he tries to grasp the wispy tendrils of what scared him so badly. "And you got hurt again. Except…"

This is the very reason I hadn't told him about the shooting. Not because he wouldn't understand, but because his fertile imagination would latch on to the vague details and have a field day with them.

"Except what?"

"Except you didn't get better," he whispers, "You went to be an angel like Mama."

"So you got up to come find me?"

Jonah nods against my leg. "Papa, I don't want you to die."

"I know, son. I know."

"Why can't people just be nice to each other?"

"Sometimes people feel very passionate about something and when other people don't agree with them, they get upset. When they get upset, they lash out. Like you yell at Jacob when he bugs you?" When Jonah nods his comprehension, I continue. "Except instead of yelling, maybe they hit those other people."

"Like how Terry Peterson beat up Simon LaFrentz for saying his shirt was ugly?"

"Sort of like that, yeah."

"But Simon was right, Terry's shirt was ugly."

"But Terry didn't think it was and it wasn't very nice of Simon to say so. If you can't say something nice…"

"…you shouldn't say anything at all," he completes the old adage for me. "I know, Papa, but I'm supposed to stick up for Isaac and Jacob when kids say bad things to them. Why is that okay?"

"Because you didn't start it, you're defending yourself or your friends from aggression. Defending yourself is okay, but you shouldn't start fights."

"You do, though, sometimes." Jonah sits up and faces me, grappling with the seeming contradictions.

"The political world is different than real life, son, and it has a whole different set of rules. That's why nobody wants their child to grow up to be a politician. You give up accepting everything as black and white, right and wrong. Everything is grey in politics, nothing is absolute."

My son shakes his head at me in confusion. "I don't get it."

I chuckle at him with a smile. "Neither do I, Jonah. Neither do I."

"Then why did you want to be President?"

"Because I want to help people. By being President, I can help everyone in the country and in other countries, as well."

Jonah bites his lower lip, considering my words before replying. "I want to help people, too, Papa, but I think I want to be an astronaut instead."

"You want to be an astronaut, huh?" I get up and stretch. God knows our space program could use some work. It never really recovered from the Columbia disaster 15 years ago. "You better start studying during science then."

"I got a B last quarter!" Jonah protests, crawling off the sofa to follow me down the hall.

"A B minus and your teacher said you spent more time making paper airplanes than paying attention in class," I chide him. We reach his room and I kneel down to hug him. "I love you, Jonah, and I'll always be here for you, okay?"

"I love you, too, Papa."


	8. Chapter 8

"Is it really appropriate for the President of the United States to spend untold hours playing baseball with 11-year-olds?" Congresswoman Nyeland is taking the opportunity granted her by the producers of Capitol Beat to rant and rave about my coaching Jonah and Isaac's Little League team.

CJ and I are watching the Sunday morning talk show in her office. The boys are upstairs putting the finishing touches on Operation Goldfish.

"It's five hours a week and why shouldn't President Lyman do what millions of parents across America do every year and coach his sons?" Charlie's got his hackles up on this one. Mostly because he got drafted into helping again this year and the team is really, really good for once.

"Because he should be taking care of the business of state, not teaching little boys how to bunt."

"Congresswoman, there's no law that says business must be conduct inside a stuffy office. The President is an outdoorsman," he almost chokes on that one, "who feels it's good for the soul to get out and play once in a while. What he's doing is an example of his commitment to family values and to being a role model for Jonah, Isaac and Jacob."

Nice zinger on the family values line there, Charles.

The program moderator bites back a smirk and interrupts Ms. Nyeland's rebuttal. "We're going to have to end it there. Thank you very much, Congresswoman Peggy Nyeland and White House Deputy Chief of Staff, Charles Young."

"I hate that woman," CJ growls, snapping the TV off and following me into the Oval Office.

The sun's heat doesn't actually penetrate the bullet-proof windows, but I bask in its rays regardless. Glancing outside, I can't help but smile. Spring thundered into town at the beginning of April, bringing drenching rains to wash away the gray of winter and radiant sunshine to brighten the world.

The economy is on the upswing, the Fed Chairman is forecasting actual economic growth for this quarter. Jacob's cast came off last week and he's anxiously awaiting the end of the school year and the two weekend trips to Connecticut we have planned in June. Jonah and Isaac have turned the South Lawn into their own, personal ballpark where the Mets (I swear I had nothing to do with naming the team) practice every day after school for a couple of hours, generally just playing sandlot ball with limited supervision.

Fifteen boys, ages 11 and 12, have been together since tee-ball and have gelled into a pretty decent ball team this spring. We have a decent chance to take the league championship if nobody gets hurt or moves out of town.

"Mr. President?" Margaret sticks her head in the office. "They're ready."

I grab my jacket and head out the door at her words.

CJ scowls at me as we walk down the portico. "Who's ready?"

"Why are you so damn grumpy?" I stop at the door to the Residence, holding my hand up to keep the Secret Service agent from opening it until I'm ready.

"It's just that time of the month," she attempts to mollify me.

"Okay, CJ, whatever." I let her excuse slide for the moment and motion for the agent to open the door. "Ladies, first."

She looks at me curiously, but enters the Residence.

"SURPRISE!" Three over-excited little boys scream as they throw themselves at CJ.

There's a 10-foot banner screaming 'Happy Mother's Day' in neon pink letters hung across the far wall and the room is filled with multi-colored balloons.

"You thought we forgot," I murmur in her ear when the boys finally release her.

"I was starting to think so, yes," she admits.

"Happy Mother's Day." I brush her cheek with my lips and fleetingly wish it was Donna I was kissing again.

"Who baked?" CJ dabs at her eyes while inspecting the round, chocolate-covered cake prominently displayed under the banner.

"We did!" Jonah and Isaac chorus.

"I got to paint it!" Jacob pipes up.

"You got to frost it," I correct him.

He frowns at me and turns back to CJ. "I put the chocolate on it."

"You did an excellent job," CJ smiles down at him.

"Mom, open your present!" Isaac tugs on her hand, trying to give her an oddly-shaped, silver-wrapped package.

CJ follows him over, admonishing all of us along the way. "You guys didn't have to get me anything, you know that."

"We didn't get you anything," I emphasize the get.

She pauses with her fingernail under the tape, obviously searching for something snarky to come back with.

Isaac's about to jump out of his skin. "Open it, Mom!"

"It isn't a potato lamp or anything is it?"

"Nope, but the boys did make it themselves," I assure her.

Her eyes widen once she gets the paper off the mason jar Jacob painted. "Bath salts? You boys are so sweet. Thank you!"

"They're armotherapy bath salts," Jonah enunciates carefully. "They're supposed to relax you. If we did it right."

"Will you use 'em, Aunt CJ?"

"Of course I will, Jacob. I'll try them out tonight."

Long after the cake is eaten and the boys are outside playing, I knock on CJ's door and stick my head in her room.

"I'm going."

"Don't stay long, Josh. It's going to be dark in a couple of hours and it still gets cold."

Derrick and two other agents slip out the back door with me for the short drive to our destination. We all get out, but only I walk towards the giant oak tree.

"Hey, sweetheart," I whisper quietly, sitting on the ground. It's still damp from yesterday's downpour. "Bet you thought I forgot, didn't you? You wouldn't be the first today. We got CJ going pretty good this afternoon. I'm sorry I haven't visited as much as I used to. I'm coaching baseball again this year. You should be impressed, only five months and the economy's picking up, unemployment's down…"

Picking at a blade of grass, I realize I'm rambling and struggle to put my feelings into complete sentences.

"You'd be so proud of them both. Jonah wants to be an astronaut now and Jacob is getting so big. God, I miss you, Donnatella. I don't know why this happened to us and I pray every day the boys will never expect me to give them a real answer, because I don't have one. I try, Donna, I really do. I try to be the man you'd want me to be, the father Jonah and Jacob deserve. If I'm never meant to understand why, then I guess I can accept it.

"I know we have this conversation every year, but…" I trail off and climb to my feet, pulling a envelope out of my breast pocket. I tuck the card into the taller grass at the base of the gravestone. Touching my fingers to my lips, I press them to the cold marble stone. "I love you, Donna. Happy Mother's Day."


End file.
